


Counting Sheep

by upbeat



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Comfort, Early Relationship, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26373799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upbeat/pseuds/upbeat
Summary: David can’t sleep. Patrick tries to help.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 160





	Counting Sheep

With a loud sigh of frustration, he flounces from his left side onto his back. The bed shakes gently. It's almost 3:30 AM and it's not that he's _not_ tired. In fact, he can barely keep his eyes open. He just can’t sleep. It's one of those nights. If he can’t fall asleep soon, he’ll just have to make it to 5:00 without losing his damn mind. That’s how it works on nights like these. Once 5:00 AM hits, just as the darkness switches over to morning, he’s always, inexplicably wide awake, ready to start the day. His sleep-addled mind resigning and resetting with the rise of the sun.

It’s 3:34 AM. Despite the fact that he’s in a T-shirt, not a sweater, despite the fact that the fan is blowing steadily at his feet, he’s still way too warm under the covers. But one toss of the blanket aside and he’s suddenly way too cold. 

Patrick is snoring lightly next to him and it annoys him. It’s not fair. He rolls back onto his left side, facing the wall. Patrick’s breathing, slow and measured, is usually comforting, the steady in and out, the rise and fall of his chest. But now it’s almost maddening. David’s own chest begins to tighten, an uneasy, itchy feeling settling somewhere deep inside.

He flips back over onto his right to face him now, letting out a loud, frustrated groan. He scratches restlessly at his arm.

Patrick’s eyes blink open sleepily. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi.”

“Can’t sleep?” His eyes begin to drift back shut on their own. 

“Can’t sleep.”

"Here..." Patrick blindly reaches across the sheets for David’s hand, threading their fingers together. His hand is warm and a little sticky under the blanket. 

David shuts his eyes. He breathes in the scent of fabric softener and the faint smell of Patrick’s shampoo. A few minutes go by and soon he is uncomfortably aware of Patrick’s fingers against his own. The feel of his strong, sturdy hands, usually an anchor during times of stress, is now grating gradually on his nerves, leaving him feeling anxious and unmoored. 

"Sorry, I can't… " David admits with a sigh. He slips his hand out from Patrick’s.

"It's okay," he reassures him. 

David lets out another loud groan and rolls onto his back.

"Count sheep," Patrick whispers. His eyes are still closed but he’s angled in toward David, their legs nearly touching.

A few seconds go by.

"It’s not -- I just -- I don't care about sheep, Patrick. I can’t even… picture what one looks like right now. Why would I be counting them?" 

Patrick opens his eyes. David’s profile is fuzzy in the darkness. “You don’t know what sheep look like? They’re fluffy."

"Okay.”

"Like clouds. But with four legs and a head.”

David lets out a short laugh. “That’s... mildly horrifying _._ ”

“But quantifiable,” Patrick says through a quiet yawn. He shifts under the blanket and tucks his hand under his pillow. 

“Maybe I’ll count clouds, actually.” David shuts his eyes.

That works, a little, for a few minutes, until all the clouds start looking the same and start blending together into one giant, nebulous, gray mass.

“Now it’s just gray sky, Patrick,” he whispers to the ceiling.

“Okay,” he mumbles softly, the corner of his mouth pressed into his pillow. “Try counting backwards maybe?”

“You want me to count... _numbers?_ " David’s voice is barely above a whisper but still manages to hit that perfect rising pitch. "No, thank you.”

“But that's the point, right? To put you to sleep.”

"Yeah, but I have to _like_ what I'm counting. The boredom might _actually_ keep me awake."

Patrick laughs. He pushes himself up on his elbows, fluffs up his pillow, then rolls over onto his back. "Then count something you _do_ like. Pizza slices."

A minute goes by. 

"Now I'm just getting hungry."

The bed shakes softly with Patrick’s sleepy laughter. "Okay,” he pauses, thoughtful and tired. “Designer sweaters..."

"Designer sweaters,” David repeats. His mind immediately visualizes his wardrobe at the motel room. He imagines each piece by fabric first. His thoughts slow, focusing on each individual sweater, until suddenly he thinks maybe it’d be better if he counted them alphabetically, by designer, or by pattern, maybe by color. His mind picks up again and he wonders if he’s doing this correctly, wonders just what exactly is the most efficient way one should be counting sweaters. Patrick would know. He would probably create a spreadsheet. David smiles. 

He tilts his head to the right and sees that Patrick has fallen back asleep. His mouth is parted slightly, slow, gentle breaths escaping into the stillness of the room. David’s eyes wander over the blurred edges of his jawline, the dusky glow of his skin in the darkness. 

He wiggles in closer and drapes his arm across Patrick’s chest. But the hypersensitivity has not quite waned and he quickly pulls back. He tucks his right hand under his pillow and instead lets his left hand lightly wander down the smooth lines of Patrick’s arm. He runs his fingers down his skin, into the dip of his elbow, until they settle comfortably on his wrist. He rests his fingers there for a second and soon he can feel the faint thumping of Patrick’s heartbeat under his fingertips.

Images of fluffy clouds and pizza slices, designer sweaters, and anything else he might like all dim in his mind.

He draws in a deep, calming breath and begins counting. Slowly, steadily.

_One, two, three, four._

He feels the restlessness of his mind slip farther away with each passing beat. The anxiety from earlier in the night, deep and oppressive, transforms into something dull and negligible as drowsiness settles in around him. Soon his sleep-slackened fingers begin to slip from Patrick’s wrist. 

He falls asleep some 48 heartbeats later dreaming about sheep. 


End file.
